cool and unusual punishment

CRUX PREVIEW

Entry 1: Beginning Again

I stop by your grave today on the way to school. I wasn't sure the MIBs would allow it, but what do you know, they pull the limo off the freeway. I'm sure you'd come here before for the death of some relative, seeing as there are a few 'Rivers' scattered around the area. (I had been looking forwards to meeting your family when we returned. The reception was cold.) I don't have flowers on me, so I pluck a few weeds and lay them across, my nostrils revelling in their cut-plant pain. The earthier, quieter scents are almost masked by it, including an unseasonal amount of mud- the grass hasn't grown in over the tomb yet, and the stone is so shiny I could see my face in the reflection. The injury is even fresher than the pain.

"We planned to get you to your destination no more than ten minutes early, for orientation purposes, and we are rapidly approaching ten minutes now. We understand your plight, but we need you to get back into the limousine to escort you to school." suggests a woman in a dress suit and shades. She speaks in the cryptic, calculating tone all the MIBs have. I withdraw from your side, sensing again the keen lack that always comes with giving up on you, and enter the car.

They don't bother asking questions. I know they haven't run out of things to ask about our incident, about CorpInd, or any other number of interesting facts in the two-year trainwreck my life has just barrelled through. This is a pity I've been given as a treat for being cooperative.

The country whirls past in a blur of color. My eyes are drawn at once to the motion of trees and highway signs, which provides all the excitement color no longer gives. The window is clear, so much so that I can see the half-reflection of my face, which offers copper hair messy enough to match the jagged texture of the fall leaves. I try to draw my wandering eyes away from the ears, the one thing besides my hidden teeth that doesn't pass for normal, but as I look at myself I notice all the subtle things that will tip people off by instinct. The corners of my eyes are almost black, my nose is curled, and there's definitely something wrong in the pupils.

I drum my fingers on the side of the limousine. Better public school than another day in the empty house, my parents eyeing me like I'll snap at any minute, but better hell than public school.

Speaking of public school, I find myself in a moment of brief reprieve: even with four entrances, the whole road is stopped up from traffic. The slick black car looks comical as it cuts in between minivans, and I am unceremoniously shuffled out in front of the building, whose massive rafters and glass front tower overhead.

The Brooks School.

Brooks and Rivers. Feels like home already.

I don't think I need to detail your own school to you, even though the school itself was making a show of it. There's not one corner not touting student awards, progressive ideals, or sweeping architectural gestures. I'm less impressed by the magnitude and more that I'm quite possibly standing in your footsteps today. These are the bushes that were here when you were. Likely, despite the grandeur of it all, some of these corners and tackboards have remained uncleaned since. I might pass some stray lint from your clothing at some point. I can't say I'm desperate enough to look for it, to catch your scent, but I also can't say I'm not that desperate.

I shuffle into line for orientation, but my eyes pick out an empty line for me, with a red marker sign that reads 'Extra Services'. Next to A-M and M-Z, this line seems far less coveted. People move out of my way as I enter it, and I catch their eyes, keeping my hands close to myself as possible. That singular moment of intuition in the car was practically fate. I was pretty stupid to hope I'd be passing for normal, even if only that most desperate part of my teen heart was hoping at all.